Players In War
by Princess Astrella
Summary: AU As the soldier marches, he rethinks the morality of war. When he comes across a little girl and her sister, he must justify both his actions and war. Chapter Four: He said he'd come back. He said it would be soon.
1. The Morality of War

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. It would be so much more depressing, then, so let's be thankful I don't own it.

Rated T for some language, and the fact I'm a teenager and I don't know what's going to come out of my head.

I hope you enjoy!

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><p>The army marched through the small town in perfect timing.<p>

As he marched, a soldier watched the faces of the townspeople he marched by. They all showed fear and pain and hatred. Face after grubby face glared at him from their doorways. It was reasonable. The army had taken so much from them. They had killed their young men, burned their cities and farms and finally taken their nationality. Many of these families had a short future ahead of them. With their farms burned and their men dead, they had nothing left to live on.

He marched on, the only sound the boots on the dirt road and the occasional sound of a child's whimpering. Everyone was required to watch the army. The fear it instilled in them was necessary for a successful occupation. Every man, woman and child that this town still held watched the army process. As he caught the eye of a young woman carrying a child but one year old, his thoughts began to stray.

Was it right to make people watch them?

Was it right to even make these people suffer?

He knew it was for the best of his country, but was the glory of a country more important than the innocence of a child? More than half of the children watching him as he marched would grow up fatherless, if they even had the chance to grow up. A half of those children would die before they would even understand what had happened.

He felt guilty. The men he had shot down. Had one of them been the father of the little boys in that house? Had one of them been the son of the woman crying in her doorframe?

His thoughts were interrupted by the shouts of what sounded like a young girl a couple houses ahead.

"Bastards! You killed Papa! Potato-eating bastards, all of you!"

The girl in question stood with her sister at the edge of the street. They were in grubby children's dresses and their hair was pulled back in messy braids. What seemed to be the younger one clutched her sister's hand, tears running down her face.

"Lovi… Papa doesn't like it when you say that. .."

"Papa is dead. And it's the fault of these… these… evil, God-damn bastards!"

The younger one just cried as the elder child continued to yell. The soldier looked at the two of them, and felt even worse. What if he had killed their dear Papa? His hand strayed to his pocket, where he kept the picture. He had taken it from the body of a dead man, feeling it necessary to return. The picture had the images of two young girls and their mother. The elder, dark haired one held hands with their mother, and their mother held the younger one in her other arm.

Two girls…

The same?

The soldier took it out of his pocket and held it in his hand, rubbing it between his two fingers. He should give it back to the family to which it belonged. But the line kept moving. Right then left then right again. He stole another glance back to the girls and made a decision.

He stepped out of the line.

The soldiers around him raised their eyebrows, but kept on walking. They were not going to get in trouble because of him. The townspeople held their children tighter. What was this soldier going to do? What could he do?

As he walked towards the two girls, the little one began to wail, but the elder one stood there firmly.

"Don't you touch my sister, bastard."

He shook his head. "I have no intention of harming either of you."

"Then what do you want?"

"I'm… I'm sorry."

The elder girl snatched the picture from the soldier's outstretched hand before he could do a thing. After looking at it, her bottom lip began to quiver. "Bastard," she whispered.

Looking up in to the soldier's blue eyes, she screamed. "Bastard! You killed our Papa!"

"Lovi," the little one said again, "He said he was sorry. God forgives him, why don't you?"

The girl who seemed to be named Lovi looked down. She didn't apologize, but she didn't seem antagonized towards him. "He's still a bastard…"

The younger girl looked up at him. She held onto her picture, and looked through his clear blue eyes with her own amber orbs. "I hope that you don't kill anyone else's Papa. God doesn't like murderers. "

The soldier nodded. "I must do what I am told…" he trailed off, due to lack of a name.

The younger girl supplied it, "Felicianna,"

"I must do what I am told, Felicianna."

"God tells us not to kill."

The soldier opened his mouth to respond, and closed it due to lack of response. He looked Felicianna in the eyes, holding her hands.

"Let me tell you something. The world does not always run as it should. God tells us not to kill, but we go around, killing. Just because God says we should does not mean we do. No, this is not an excuse, but when someone is killing you, are you just to sit there? In theory, yes, but would you? I am told to kill for the glory of my country. I know it is wrong, but I must. I cannot say that I enjoy it. I know that every man I kill is a son or a father. But I must fight. I am told to fight, and the people who tell me to do so give me money to feed my family. Who am I to tell them, 'No, I wish to starve.'? Yes, God hates me when I strike a man down, but I must. Do you understand?"

Felicianna looked down. "I understand that you feel bad, but I do not understand why you continue."

"In all honesty, I would rather not. But my country and my family need me to. I cannot stop."

Felicianna nodded. "Yes. God and I wish you would, though."

Glancing down at the ground the soldier nodded. "God bless you, Felicianna."

"God bless you…"

"Ludwig Beilschmidt."

"God bless you Ludwig Beilschmidt."

The soldier ran back to his place in line, his hat hiding his face so that you couldn't see the lonely teardrop rolling down.

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><p>AN: In case you didn't really get it from the story, the army has taken over the place Felicianna lives, and the people are forced to watch the army march so they don't rebel.

I plan to write other AU war short stories and publish them as other chapters, but this story in itself is complete.

I hope you liked it enough to spend a minute to review!

The Princess Astrella


	2. The Hands of a Killer

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, kay?

A/N: Thank you sooo much all of you read it, thank you more to the people who liked it, and thank you even more to the person who reviewed. That was so sweet of you. (You can tell it's my first fanfiction because I still get so overly ecstatic when people like it.

I hope you also like this one!

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><p>The Hands of a Killer<p>

Alfred had always hoped to be a hero. Someone who saved children, kept families together and kept freedom alive. He had hoped this ever since a little boy could hope. That's why he joined the army. To help his country grow and prosper as it should. Keeping people free from oppression and evil. But was what he did done to do that?

He still remembered the face of the man he had killed. It was burned in his mind like a brand. The finely cut chin, the steel blue eyes, the styled blonde hair. The perfectly aligned uniform, even in the midst of battle. Alfred had been told to kill him for freedom and for his country. He had been told of the evils he had done to families and peaceful citizens. But this man hadn't done anything. He was a soldier, just like himself.

Alfred glanced at the picture he held in his hand. He had taken it off the body, as well as a few unused bullets. The picture was a worn photograph of the soldier and a pretty young woman with curled brown hair and amber eyes. You could see in their eyes that they loved each other.

And he had killed the young soldier.

How would they tell the girl?

She would hate his killer. With good reason.

She would hate him.

Letting the photograph fall from his hands, he began to cry. He was no hero. He was a murderer. There was innocent blood on his hands, and he could never get it off. The stains defined him now. The blood of that one soldier was now who he was.

In a few months, the war would be over, and he could go back to his family. How could he face them? He had left them with the dream of saving them, and would return a man who didn't even have mercy toward the innocent. How could a man kill and love?

His face stayed in his hands, and his body shook with sobs. He didn't even look up as his commanding officer Arthur Kirkland walked in.

"First kill?"

It was blunt to say the least, but it was all that was necessary. The higher officer sat down next to him and sighed. After a few moments just listening to the wind, he spoke again.

"It doesn't make you a bad person, you know. He came into this war as you did. Wanting glory."

"And I killed him. Saying that killing him wasn't bad is just the same as saying killing me wouldn't be bad."

"I never said it wasn't bad. I'm saying that it doesn't make you a bad person. He fully knew that he could die."

"It's… so awful though… "

Arthur nodded understandingly. His green eyes looked off into the distance, and he responded in a far off voice, "War is."

"Why?" Alfred's voice was angry now. "Why is war like this? I thought… I thought that.."

"You thought that war was good against evil. That it would bring you glory and honor. It's true for all of us at first. I see it in the new soldiers every time. Coming in, wanting glory, eventually the epiphany that war is cruel. Every soldier starts that way. Why? We're young. We're fed since we are little on the idea that the way to bring our country glory is to kill. We rush to bring ourselves and our families honor, not realizing what we actually are doing until it's done. These fields were once full of children twirling flowers in their hair. The only flowers here now are the ones marking the graves of the children, running through the fields with a gun in their hand, thinking they are doing something good.

You feel like a killer. You are. Not all killers are immoral. Some are just confused. You wonder if you can go back to your family as you are now. You can. You will. We all will when this hell of a war is over. You will praise God when you do, and you will still be loved and you will still love. War changes you, but you are still a human. If you get through it, it will make you stronger."

Alfred looked up at the older man, and back into his hands. "I hope you're right." He replied blankly.

"I am."

"How do you know?"

"I was once a young soldier too, you know. Every man who ever commanded was." Arthur let a humorless laugh escape. "All your heroes had a first kill too." And with that he left Alfred to himself in the war strewn fields which held the bodies of all the children who had died looking for the honor that never was.

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><p>...<p>

so sad... I'm such a depressing person...

Either way, I hope all of you who read it like it, and I hope that my continuation in a different setting entirely (It's much later in our time, I think. Don't you?) is good. I shall write more of these, if only because my friend (I see you Koffles!) really wants more.

Thank you,

The Princess Astrella


	3. The Death of Memories

Hello, again, all of you reading this!

This is a little different. This story is called Players in War, and I kind of wanted it to have stories that weren't explaining morality or great thoughts. This is just the story of one little girl and the way a war was her life.

Russia might be a little out of character, but this is kind of through Belarus's eyes, so it is a warped view.

Note: Natasha is the diminutive of Natalia, I have her refered to Natasha and Tasha.

I hope you like it!

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><p>The Death of Memories<p>

Time seemed unreal to Natalia as she lay on the battlefield. Every event she remembered were the same distance away. The first news of the war, the day her brother left, the decision she made to become a nurse. Even the moment when the bullet that had embedded itself in her side.

The pain made the sides of her vision fade, and the real landscape soon faded to memories of her life, her brother and war that affected them both.

_First it was in a church. An old, pretty Orthodox one with the domes that looked like candy. Natalia sat next to her brother, clutching his hand. This was the war's first affect. She was younger then. Her brother and sister were still children too. _

_The priest stood at the front. He talked about stuff Tasha didn't understand. The people were unnamed faces, and she didn't care. They were crying, but she wasn't. All she knew was that she would never see the man Vanya and Katyusha called father. It didn't matter to her. She had her siblings._

"_Mother, why are you crying? Mother? Mother?"_

_Her mother never answered. _

Natalia almost laughed, if the pain wasn't there. Funny, she didn't even feel emotion at six. Funny, she didn't cry at death at six. Funny, her mother never answered. Funny, her mother never said anything to her. Funny, how her mother killed herself as soon as Katyusha could take care of the other two of them. Funny, how she never missed her.

_She missed her siblings when they left. When Katyusha left to work, she sat with Ivan and they talked. How they would create a house where everyone was happy, where people didn't starve. Ivan said there would be sunflowers. Every sunflower Natasha saw was for him. Every one was a ray of sunshine. A smile. How he smiled when they were all alone in the snow! _

"_Ivan? Did father love us?"_

"_Of course. He died for us, yes?"_

"_Did mother love us?"_

"_She was our mother. She loved how we reminded her of the man she loved."_

"_Does Katyusha love us?"_

"_She is one of us. We're all together, aren't we?"_

"_Do you love me?"_

"_You're my sister. Of course I love you, Natasha."_

_They passed the days as so, Natasha grew to be a young woman, Ivan a young man. Old enough to join the army their father had died in. _

That's all life was wasn't it? Talking in the snow. If only that's all life actually was. People were happy when they spent their days in loving company. With someone to share it with, you became immune to the cold from old clothes and the pain of no shoes. But when they leave, you have nothing. The cold finally gets to you, the pain keeps you from continuing.

Nothing could stop her, though. Natalia smiled. She had broken the chains that loneliness give you, and made it to where her brother was. She was here. She had saved him.

_The road to here wasn't even that hard, once she had mustered the courage to leave the nothing she had and endured the lack of money and shoes and gotten herself to sign up to be a nurse. Death and blood had never fazed her, and she could heal basic wounds. It had not even been two years since her brother left before her first battle. _

_The first battle had caught her unawares. How naïve was she that she thought that because she could stand blood and death that she could withstand a battle? A battle was much more than that. A battle was alive. It moved, fought both sides, and won, no matter what. There were always deaths. Not just deaths, deaths of men with crazed looks behind their eyes, crying for the ones that they loved. _

_Tell them! Tell them I love them!_

_By the time the troops had both subsided, the death toll was unthinkable. Natalia didn't even cry. It was too much. Dead bodies were buried in mass graves, the limited documentation was horrid. Some of the families wouldn't even know if their father had died. If their brother had died. _

_Where was he? _

_The images of all of them rushed back to her, combined with the smell of thousands of men's blood. Was one of them her Ivan? His face floated before her, this time destroyed by the day's horrors. Natalia ran back to the edge of the river behind the camp and watched as the limited food she had consumed today wash down it, mixed with blood, bodies and other repulsive things. _

Who did she think she was, thinking she could endure a battle?

She thought she could do anything for her brother, and once she realized he might not be there to do anything for, she was as lost as the flimsy girls she worked with. She wasn't flimsy anymore. This war had turned her as solid as the oldest soldier. She hadn't cried since her brother left, and she hadn't vomited since that first battle.

And she had found her brother now. If only for a minute.

_He had been dressed as everyone else. If she hadn't seen his eyes, she wouldn't have known Ivan as the Ivan who had left. They were walking over to the make-shift hospital, talking and laughing. She had been jealous. Her Ivan had friends. He could laugh, talk and be. What if he hadn't even thought of her? She had spent all her time for him. Who did these people think they were? He was hers. _

_It was interrupted by a gunshot. Some of the men standing next to Ivan crumpled, and eventually the whole fort was up in arms. She saw people on both sides dying, but she didn't go to the hospital tent. Her eyes were glued on her Ivan. _

She was so glad she had. The bullet needed taking.

The battle around her had subsided. She was alone in the field again. Surrounded with others like her, and others who had been like her. The stench didn't matter anymore. She had done what she came here to do. She had saved her brother. If only he knew.

Natalia lost consciousness for what seemed endless time. Black swirled with the yellow of her brother's flowers, the white of the snow and the red of her blood. All time was now, all time was then. She couldn't feel her body. The pain wasn't there, but it weighed her down. Sweat dripped down her forehead as she tried to stay alive.

Eventually, she felt the arms of Ivan around her and she saw his eyes. Was that him? Or was it the pain?

"Why are you crying? Ivan! Ivan…"

"Sister…"

Her breath came with effort now. She just had to hold on. It would work out.

She was carried to a bed in the hospital. Was it the same one? It didn't matter. Ivan was here.

"Don't worry… Ivan… it doesn't hurt."

"Tasha! Stay!"

The smile on her face was pained as she shook her head with the last of her energy. Her last breath was a whisper on her brother's ear, a quiet sign that the life within her had left.

As Ivan closed her eyes and crossed her arms across her chest, he saw on her face the most pleasant face on her he had ever seen.

Natalia was smiling.

"Life fled with a whispered goodbye, and Death fled in the face of Love. But Love remained."

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><p>I hope you liked it! Please tell me what you thought of it. I love what you say, and I always consider it. Thank you!<p>

The Princess Astrella


	4. A Yellow Ribbon For Her Soldier

Hello! If you were hoping I'd update this regularly, I'm very, very sorry. I'm very bad at keeping up with things at all, and I kept telling myself I'd update it again, and it just never happened. I hope this makes up for it.

I don't own Hetalia. Don't really want to, actually.

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><p>War didn't seem real then. War was a chance for her love to win glory and honor. He kissed her on the lips and tied a yellow ribbon in her golden hair, promising to return. She kissed him back, and said she'd wait. He turned to leave, her fingers reached for her ribbon.<p>

He laughed. _Wear it, Madeline. For your awesome lover in the cavalry._

She smiled. _I will. See you soon._

He reached for her hand and kissed it. _Yes. See you soon, my Madeline. _

And so she wore it. Day after day, week after week, month after month, she wore it. To anyone who asked she would tell them that she wore it for her lover in the cavalry, but soon enough everybody knew of her love.

The post office man knew her by name, now, as she would come every day.

_Do you have any letters for me, sir?_

The answer varied._ No, ma'am. Yes, ma'am. Just one from your father up north, ma'am. _

His letters began as light-hearted notes. They'd complain about the smell, describe all the people at camp, and include what he'd always say was the most beautiful flower in sight. (Though he'd always mention that there weren't many flowers in sight, and her face would be fairer than the prettiest flower in the world.) Sometimes, he'd ask about people at home, or general happenings in town, but never often, as it was difficult for Madeline to respond.

Madeleine would always respond, though. Answering all his questions, reminding him to be careful, pleading for him to come home, telling him of her love for him. Before she sent them off, she would spray the letters with the rose perfume she was given by her father, always hoping to give him some relief from the stench of the camps.

He said he'd come back. He said it would be soon.

Madeline kept her letters up, even as his letters in return grew darker and darker. The letters began to tell of the war itself. The horrors of amputation, the mass graves, the loss of his friends. The worst was the story their drummer, a little boy named Peter. They couldn't even find his body.

As the letters grew darker, they grew fewer and farther between. Sometimes months would pass in between letters, but Madeline still kept her faith up.

He said he'd come back. He said it would be soon.

Sometimes Madeline doubted that he was still alive. Those thoughts would creep in the back of her brain sneakily, like little black worms. They'd crawl around and eat at her happiness, devouring every smile. She would try so hard to banish it, but the worry was persistent.

He said he'd come back. He said it would be soon.

Madeline faded in worry. She had been a soft-spoken girl, but she now grew nearly silent. She wore her dresses out, refusing to go out to buy new ones. She wouldn't go to socials with her sister Amelia, nor would she take walks out in the sunshine. She closed her shutters and wept the days away, instructing Amelia to go to the post office for her. She wore her yellow ribbon every day, but the only person who saw it was her reflection.

He said he'd come back. He said it would be soon.

Christmas came and past, and there were still no letters. January, February, March, April, May, June. They all came and went in days of monotonous woe. No more letters ever came.

On the anniversary of the end of the war, a few school children went to the cemetery. One child would pull on another's sleeve to point out the grave of a relative of sorts, and it would be reciprocated. They left flowers for every grave they could.

One child looked off at all the graves they had yet to give flowers too. There were too many deaths in this war, and this was before mass murder of civilians by bombing. But he saw an old woman at the grave in the corner, placing flowers by it, and cleaning the gravestone so it shined. Without whispering what he was going to do, the child went to the old woman and placed a hand on her shoulder.

_Ma'am? Ma'am? Do you remember the war? _

_All too well._ She replied. _All too well. _

_Is that man your brother?_

_Gilbert? Oh, no._ Her hands strayed to a golden ribbon tied in her hair.

_Did he give you the ribbon, ma'am?_

_The ribbon? It's for my soldier, who was in the cavalry. Gilbert told me to wear it for him, now I wear it for his memory. _

_Oh, ma'am. I'm so sorry. _

_No, not at all. You're the only one to have asked me today. Thank you for not forgetting the war. Too many people forget. It was a terrible thing, but children only know what is in the textbooks, and forget that lives and loves were lost. Tell your friends, don't let them forget. _

The child nodded and went back to his friends with a thank you and sorry. She watched him go back to his friends, and saw them all leave, talking about various things. She sighed.

He said he'd come back. He said it would be soon.

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><p>This war is more like the American Civil War, and based on a song from then.<p>

I'd also like to say that this is not only for you all, but for all the families of soldiers who never returned. They go through so much, and I can only imagine how devastating it would be.

I hope you like it, and I hope I get my act together to write you more!

The Princess Astrella


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